


Your Last Battlefield

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, In Which Trill Continues to Name Fics after Star Trek Episodes Because Why the Eff Not, Medical Experimentation, Sibling Incest, pre-AOU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is at the far end of a long hallway, shrouded in flickering light. He knows it’s her like he knows the inside of his own mouth with his tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Last Battlefield

**Author's Note:**

> Not a lot of meat to this one, ngl. I just love these two a lot. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The first night outside the cells, Pietro catches a glimpse of Wanda. She sags between two guards with her back to him, her bare feet dragging on the cement floor. Her stained white gown droops from one pale shoulder, and Pietro has never seen her hair such a wreck, snarled and sweaty down her back. She is at the far end of a long hallway, shrouded in flickering light. He knows it’s her like he knows the inside of his own mouth with his tongue. 

She is taken around the next bend, out of sight, before he can call for her; he can hardly walk, much less blur past his escort and follow her. He’s spent all day running into walls and crashing through obstacle courses and vomiting with motion sickness. Strucker had slipped a needle into his vein while he ate dinner, and he had hardly noticed. The world is spinning in ways he can't abide or understand.

They coax him away down the hallway with firm hands and firm voices, up flights of right-angled stairs, around too many bends to count, and steer him through a gray door with no lock and a high window. They lead him to the one narrow cot and he falls asleep immediately. The light in the ceiling flickers out just before he shuts his eyes.

~*~

He sees her again early in the morning, moving distorted but close through a pane of thick glass in a brightly-lit medical lab. He has just finished throwing up the bland porridge he'd had for breakfast, his stomach still sore and cramped, but he gathers himself enough to sit upright, reaching toward her.

The doctor making notes at his side follows his gaze. “Is it eight o’clock already?” she murmurs, faintly harried, and sets down her clipboard to open the door. Pietro struggles out the chair he's been slumped in, trying to follow, but there is no need. Wanda comes through the door with a guard at each elbow. She looks confused, exhausted, her face pale and her cheekbones sharp, but when her eyes land on Pietro she cries out and stumbles toward him.

He catches her and falls back heavily into the chair. Her nails are like claws on his arms, knees jabbing his stomach as she climbs into his lap, trying to speak but crying too much. He shushes her and squeezes the breath out of her, rocks her like a child, folded awkwardly together in the chair.

The doctor moves around them, already busy with tubes and wires and callipers, but Pietro hardly notices. He is suddenly right again.

~*~

The second night, he is aware enough to throw a fit when Strucker’s guards try to separate them for bed. They have spent all day clinging to each other between batteries of tests, Wanda’s trembling white hand twitching in his and his arm cinched at her waist, although he’s not sure which of them has been propping up the other.

The doctors hadn’t tried to keep them apart, moving around them when necessary and asking with mild formality for cooperation when they needed Pietro to blur himself into a CAT scanner for another reading, or Wanda to place her hand, ruddy with sparkling energy, into this or that device.

It’s difficult to tell what time of day it is when Strucker comes to collect them for dinner, but Pietro’s head is swimming with exhaustion and he is only too happy when Strucker murmurs in his soft accent that they should take their rest for the evening. Pietro pushes away his plate, licking the last of the hot beef stew from his fingers, and touches Wanda’s head where it rests heavily against his left shoulder blade. When he stands, she slumps, catching herself only barely on the edge of the table.

The guard at Strucker’s right steps forward, but Pietro moves quickly between them, his stomach lurching with aggressive nerves and the disconcerting effect of speeding on a full stomach. “I’ll carry her,” he says.  Wanda slips her arms easily around his neck when he lifts her, her head swooping against his shoulder. Pietro’s knees nearly buckle from the scant weight of her, but he squares his jaw not to show it. “Where is our room?” he asks, because Strucker’s base is huge and cold and laid out like a labyrinth; he hasn’t had time to investigate every dark hallway and memorise each waystation checkpoint.

“Yours is on the third level,” Strucker says, “but hers is on the second, if you’d like to follow--”

“No.” It bursts out of him like a curse. “No, we will sleep in my room.”

Strucker shakes his head, his monocle glinting in the white fluorescent light. “Out of the question, I’m afraid. Your individual rooms are tailored to your specific needs, and nearest the labs best equipped to deal with emergencies. I’m afraid--”

“We will sleep in my room,” Pietro says, stepping toward Strucker with the sort of movement that he knows makes the breadth of his shoulders appear most menacing. “I don’t care about emergencies.”

“Pietro…” Strucker glances over his shoulder at the guards by the door, whose hands have dropped to their stun batons. “It is perfectly safe for her in her own room, I give you my word. She will be under observation the entire night, nothing could possibly happen that--”

Pietro doesn’t bother listening to the rest of Strucker’s words. He blurs past him, slips sideways between the guards at the door, putting his shoulder to it to break it open, and zips left down the hallway. He knows, at least, where the third floor staircase is, and from there he can find the labs near his quarters. The first doctor he stops to question jumps and shouts when Pietro appears in front of her, but manages to give him directions to the correct wing, and from there it’s only a matter of opening each door until he finds a room that looks familiar.

Wanda is barely awake against his chest, her hand curled and trembling in his shirt. He can feel crawling sparks of energy zap his chest like a nine-volt battery every time she shivers. She squints up at him with sleepy, bloodshot eyes when he stops next to the bed.

“You’re a good boy,” she murmurs, in that half-teasing, half-gentling way she has. “My good boy. Go put the chair under the door.”

Pietro nods and sets her down on the edge of the bed. It only takes him an instant to do as she says, wedging the back of the chair under the door handle. It won’t keep out a determined guard, much less one with a pulse rifle, but it makes him feel better nonetheless. He doesn’t think Strucker will bother to press the issue.

He helps Wanda out of her clothes, which are the same style of crisp medical scrubs that Pietro had found folded at the foot of his own bed that morning, and tucks her snugly beneath the thin covers. He undresses quickly and slips in next to her, curling against her back. She tangles her fingers through his, and just before Pietro falls asleep, the light in the ceiling flickers out.

~*~

The third night is much better. They are not so tired, and no one tries to separate them. When they open the door to their room after dinner, there are two suitcases side-by-side in the centre of the bed. Pietro had forgotten they’d brought their own things when they first climbed the mountain to Strucker’s base so many months ago.

It’s just clothes, mostly, and Wanda’s jewellry and makeup. Pietro has some books in his, a cellphone with a dead battery, and some money. Wanda’s bag contains their identification and legal paperwork, a little ceramic rabbit that had been their mother’s. She buries her hands in the tidily folded stacks of cotton dresses and leather jackets. “I never thought I’d miss proper clothes so much,” she says, smiling at Pietro over her shoulder. It’s the first time in so long that he’s seen her eyes alight with anything but red.

~*~

On the fourth night out of their cells, they go to bed early. The lights are shut off automatically at quarter past ten, Pietro has learned, and Wanda tells Strucker on their way out of the dining hall that they want to read before sleeping. Strucker smiles indulgently and wishes them good night, but Pietro can’t quite manage to swallow the smirk that curls his mouth. They don’t need anyone’s permission.

In their room, he puts the chair beneath the door handle right away, and kicks his shoes off under the desk. Wanda, unbuttoning her short jacket, tosses a smirk of her own at him. Halfway through dinner, she had slipped her thigh overtop his beneath the table, and leaned across him to reach the bread in the middle of the board. The push of her half-covered cleavage against his arm had made his head swim, and he’d blurred just the tiniest bit to give her fat right tit an appreciative squeeze. It had made her jump, and bite the inside of her cheek, when he’d slowed down again. She’d given him a look full of ravenous hunger. They hadn’t bothered to stick around for pudding and fruit.

“Wait, wait,” he says, when she reaches for the zipper on the back of her dress. The hem goes just to her knees, and it’s one of her favourites, red with thin straps and a bow at the waist. She tips her head, questioning.

“Leave it on.” He peels his own shirt up and over his head. He knows the room is a little chilly because of the goosebumps that are prickling Wanda’s bare arms, but he doesn’t feel it. He rubs one hand down his own belly, over the front of his pants where his cock is already getting hard.

Wanda’s gaze follows the motion of his hand, and she swallows. “You know, if you like it so much, I have others that might fit you.” She grins as she says it, but he doesn’t miss the way her breathing stutters and her eyes grow darker.

He grins at her, slow and teasing. “You’d like that?”

“You’re very beautiful,” she demurs. “I’m sure it would suit you. Although your legs are too hairy for it.”

Pietro says, “Hmm,” contemplatively, and pretends to ponder with his chin in his hand. “My hairy legs, and my pretty face, which is better?”

Wanda snorts. “I’m not going to answer that, you--”

Pietro blurs before she can finish, tackling her into the bed. He does it gently, swooping her first into his arms and then arranging her carefully and bending so she falls only a couple inches onto her back. She bounces when he slows again, gasping, and curses him in three languages. But she’s grinning, and her hands are curling around the back of his neck at the same time, and he braces himself over her on his palms to kiss her soundly.

It’s the first proper kiss they’ve had in months, besides some exhausted chaste presses before sleep and the way Pietro likes to touch his shut mouth to her temples and cheeks and the back of her neck throughout the day. It’s the first time in so long that he’s touched his tongue against hers and tasted her sweet bottom lip. She sighs very softly when she opens her mouth, one hand sliding up into his hair to press him closer. Her fingers twist, and his scalp zings with it. It makes him groan helplessly and press his cock into the side of her thigh. Her other hand slides down his spine to the small of his back, where she presses at him, urging him closer. Her pelvis hitches under him and he grinds into her, cock throbbing. He can feel how hot she is through all their clothes, the softness of her damp pussy.

It’s long practice and a little bit of speed that lets him shift his weight on top of her so he can push one hand under her ass and lift her up to him. She makes a desperate noise into his mouth when he does, her thigh trembling where it wraps around his. He rocks his cock against her, shivering at the way it throbs fuller and hotter. More than anything, he wants to unzip his pants and pull her panties out of the way, push his dick into the wet tight clench of her. But they don’t have condoms, and they’d promised each other years ago that they’d never take the chance, no matter how badly they want to. The thought of it, though, the visceral sensation that squeezes through him at the idea, makes him tense with anticipation, his cock slicking at the tip.

She must feel the moment his thrusting gets greedy, because she pushes him back at the same time he pulls away. Her hair is wild on the bed, but beautifully so, her throat and cheeks flushed a high tender colour. On his hands and knees above her, he takes a second to catch his breath before leaning in to kiss her once more. She bites his tongue, a little hard, but unapologetic.

He wants to put his mouth all over her, taste her everywhere and make her crazy for him. He starts easing back from her mouth, sliding down the bed, but she stops him with the hand still tight in his hair.

“Hold on.” Her eyes and the hand curled on the bedspread glow red. “There’s a camera in here.”

Pietro turns his head immediately, but he hasn’t seen one before, and he can’t now. He should have thought of it, though; they are under surveillance everywhere else, why would their private rooms be an exception?

“Where?”  

Wanda lifts her hand, her fingers twisting in that strange specific way, and a flare of red energy curls away from her palm, dancing toward the ceiling. Pietro watches it spread and move like a wave on a beach, ebbing and gathering first in one direction and then another. It slithers along the edges of the walls, winding around the light fixture, and darts sideways into the small air vent above the desk. Of course.

Pietro get to his feet, squeezing Wanda’s hip once, and blurs up onto the desk. The vent cover is sturdy, so he waits for the red glow behind the grate to dart forward and tear the screws from the wall. It clatters to the desk by Pietro’s feet. Sure enough, just inside, a tiny camera is mounted nearly flush with the wall. Only the thin lens is illuminated by Wanda’s red glow.

“Ah,” says Pietro, ducking his head so he can grin directly into the aperture. “Sneaky sneaky.” And because there’s no use trying to be subtle at this point, and he doesn’t care to anyway, he wiggles his eyebrows and winks before reaching in and ripping the camera out of its hidey-hole. He crushes it in one hand and drops it on the desk. “Is that the only one?” he asks, turning around.

Wanda is still lying on the bed, her dress rumpled and hiked up past her knees, her mouth looking delicate from kissing, but her nod is fierce. “No others.”

Pietro blurs back to her in a heartbeat, taking only an instant on the way to admire her casual vibrancy, like a living wax statue just for him to enjoy. He drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, between her parted legs. She doesn’t jump when he slows back down, her eyes already focused on him like she knew just where he was planning to go.

He snaps his teeth at her playfully, rubbing his hands up her thighs, beneath the skirt. He feels as full of crackling energy as her clever magical hands, brimming with sharp giddiness. He ducks his head to kiss her knee, lets his stubble catch her dark nylons. “Hmm?” he says, both asking and teasing.

She winds her hand back into his hair, pushing her thumb into the tender notch behind his ear. With the gentlest pressure, she coaxes him closer between her legs, into the warm space where she smells rich and salty, her thighs easing open around his head.

He sees immediately that she isn't wearing panties under the nylons, and that she is already slick for him. It makes his mouth wet in response. He ducks his face under her skirt. She gasps when he puts his mouth on her, pressing with his tongue. He licks at the outside of her nylons for a long minute, until she squirms and reaches under her dress to tug them down. He helps to pull them off, too careless, tearing them with his thumbnail. She hisses at him but curls one foot behind his back and pulls him down again before he can apologise.

The taste of her makes him whine, his mouth opening over her swollen clit. She's hairier than he's ever known her to be, but he doesn't mind; he reaches to spread her open with one hand, the other curling over her hip, and she throws her head back on the bed, groaning.

He doesn't think it will take much to make her come, she's already so slick and hot, her clit throbbing against his tongue. His cock is flexing in his pants, responsive to her sounds and smell and flavour. It's been much too long, their bodies over-ready for pleasure, in sync with each other as ever.

She comes fast, her nails sharp on his scalp, her chest heaving and her breath breaking in her throat. He buries his mouth deep in her pussy, sucking desperately, pressing his cock against the bed, and lets her ride through it until his mouth feels bruised.

When she's done, he pulls off with a gasp, scrambling up, hands shaking at the waistband of his pants. He's too desperate even to think of blurring, pulling his cock out, kneeling over her.

She leans up on one elbow, her eyes dazed and her face flushed, and reaches for him. He holds it for her, reigning it back, as she takes the head in her mouth. The sleek plush of her tongue and the inside of her cheek makes him shake. She looks up at him as she sucks, scratching the back of his naked thigh with her nails. He comes even faster than she did, gasping, groaning, petting her hair.

The languor of it sweeps immediately over him like a crashing wave, leaves him limp and shivering in its wake. He slides sideways onto the bed so he doesn't crush her, and she rolls after him, burying her face in his heaving chest. He wraps his arm around her, squeezing her against him, and kisses the crown of her head over and over, too stupid with climax to tell her any of the things he wants to. They're all caught inside him, wound up and unravelling in the wrong directions, frayed with too much meaning and too little coherence.

But, as always, she needs no words to understand him. The clutch of her strong small hands echoes back to him all the things knotted in his throat, raw in his belly.

“Shh,” she says, her breath warm and close by his neck. “Everything is alright. We are safe, and we are together. Go to sleep, Pietro.”

And he does.

 


End file.
